That Ghost of a Smile
by Jim in a Crown
Summary: Clint Barton is haunted by the memory of Loki; half remembered incidents and snarling dreams. That fear of his own brain-washed obedience. The pale monster God with green eyes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

This is a Clint Barton aka Hawkeye/Loki fic. I'm really interested in the idea of what Clint's time as Loki's brain-washed pet was like. This is just an exploration of the whole thing. I'm not sure where it'll go. Very much inspired by Erebusodora's drawings. ( post/9305235845/its-already-late-night-here-and-disturbing-news)

* * *

There's that ghost of a smile. A cruel smile on thin lips, pained lips, drawn narrow like a pencil gash on paper that split right through. Deep, but grey and thin and hard.

The fall of dark hair onto dark shoulders. Relaxed lines like strokes of paint. Black as dense fabric, but soft, marring the sharp angles and lines of the pale face. Framing, blurring edges and boundaries and deceiving.

His fingers and his hands, elegant like a pianists. Fragile as if they could be snapped, one by one from holding to hard to an idea. Subtle fingers, that rest fleetingly on a firmly muscled shoulder. Cold fingers that press into a tautly muscled forearm. With nails that dig in to leave little crescent shaped reminders.

His white skin. It took all the poetic words Clint didn't even knew he knew. That even cheek- stone face- haunted his dreams, with its marble hard lines of alabaster and ice. On closer inspection, observance, (that forced blank eyed stare) it wasn't as smooth as fresh snow or as hyper real and as ghostly. Even Gods have worry lines. Age lines. Laughter lines.

What did he have to laugh about? In Clint's dreams he often laughed, with a voice as light as wind and as cold and hard as hail one second, and as tender as a lovers whisper the next. His voice was like that. Silver, liquid metal; it appeared as cold as frost but burnt with a white hot heat.

Then there were his green eyes, as clear and holding so much promise of pain, and burning with knowledge that he has no right- _damn him_- no right to have. Those green eyes hold Clint's gaze and won't let him look away, until Clint sees through the bottle green glass to the poison inside, not poison waiting to kill, but poison administered long ago by others. He thinks, with this terror of someone who can't control his thoughts, that Loki is _hurting_ and he is _frightened._

Clint sees that Loki is scared.

That was when the dream ended, like all good dreams, with Clint's own death that jerked him swearing and shaking in cold sweat (cold like Loki's skin) back to his darkened bedroom and tangled sheets. The physical memory of cold steel searing through abdominal muscles and Loki's feral snarl still hovered in front of his vision. A twisted face filled with so much hate, hate to disguise fear. A mask of hatred is such an apt phrase.

Clint was always disgusted at the way Loki reads his thoughts. Before he evens knows what they are himself. Clint was also always disgusted with himself for having pitied the- _man_?

The monster.

Loki.

Loki.

Damn him!

Clint swung his legs out of bed and curled forwards, hunched up as if to protect himself from flying shrapnel, from bullets, like you do after a fall, with your hands curled into the back of your neck, into that space between your skull and your spine. He stayed like that, still, quiet, for a few minutes, eyes open to cast away the image _his face _just hovering beyond the tangible. But because he couldn't quite grasp it, he couldn't get rid of it either.

The alarm clock ticked loudly in the muffled darkness.

These long nights were getting to Clint.

The memory of Loki smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

In S.H.I.E.L.D people _got on with things._

Clint, as always, did as he was told. He followed orders, shot straight, and was generally a quiet, polite and helpful assassin. In S.H.I.E.L.D it didn't do to be traumatised. Sure, they had counsellors and probably armies of psychotherapists, but Clint did not need his head examining- he assured himself. Yeah the bad dreams were probably a bit dodgy, but he also was pretty sure that they weren't only dreams.

Some of it was real.

That- he couldn't explain to anyone, and didn't want to try.

Real?

Firstly, Clint saw Loki in mirrors.

It was actually any reflective surface, shiny kitchen pans, distorted reflections on the back of his bathroom taps, faint outlines and sun hidden reflections in the glass of shop windows. Mostly, though, it was in the mirrors at home. Bathroom, while shaving. Hall mirror, while fiddling with your hair. The mirrors in cars- that was the worst one. He had to explain to Natasha why he swerved so suddenly: he'd seen the back of a tall man walking along the sidewalk, dark hair swept behind his shoulders which were hunched a little. A powerful stride in a long coat. A very familiar silhouette.

Clint never saw Loki _properly_. It was just the glint of an eye behind him at home in the bathroom, and when he spun around there was nothing and nobody there. It was a silhouette across the street when he glanced at a shop display. It was the way the shadows melded themselves into a two horned helmet and shone back at him from the glass face of his watch.

It was driving him insane.

God of Mischief? God of Insanity and Chaos.

Of course it brought back the memories of his time when Loki had possessed him. (Possessed- such an awful word. Controlled. Manipulated. Not _possessed._) Yet, that Clint was almost okay with. He'd killed many people, some of who he knew, but he killed people all the time. It was sad, it was troubling, but it wasn't completely crazy. He could deal with it.

The sensation of being controlled by Loki he couldn't deal with. It wasn't even as if he couldn't control his limbs. He was still Clint Barton. He had his own thoughts, voice, mannerisms. But he knew what Loki wanted and did what Loki wanted. He didn't even feel trapped. He felt accomplished and useful and powerful.

That was an awful feeling.

Awful.

And then there were the other ways Loki haunted him: his smell. That was what assured Clint that he wasn't inventing this, that the freaking God of who-knows-what was haunting him. Maybe not dangerously- they had Thor's word he was locked up- but all the same.

Leather and sour iron.

A spicy smell of someone else, like bitter Cinnamon.

Something clean like unperfumed soap.

It drifted around the flat, sometimes with the corner-of-your-eye Lokis, sometimes just on its own. It was a strange thing to notice but so much more powerful than a sound or an imagine. It threw Clint right back into Loki, as though he could feel the heavy arm around his shoulders, the kiss of his black hair on Clint's cheek as Loki leant over him from behind with a smile that was all teeth.

Too close.

It brought Loki too close. Far too close. Close in memory, and all those things Loki made Clint do, and how Clint did them. Happily, contentedly. Naturally. And Loki's smile.

"So Barton. Tell me about your Ms. Romanoff." Such a cool, pleasant voice like honey, like clear cold water.

So Clint had told Loki everything. Of course he had. You don't resist a voice like that.

It worried him now that Natasha had never told him what Loki had said to her. He knew he said something nasty- no surprise he guessed- but the others had never actually said what. He hoped it didn't trouble Natasha. Damn the girl had bigger balls of steel than the rest of the team, but Clint couldn't help but wonder. He knew how scared she was of loosing her mind.

The only problem was he'd told Loki that. He'd told Loki Natasha's paranoia about brain-washing, that fear of anything that couldn't think and couldn't reason. She had her own reasons for it, and as fears go it was pretty reasonable. But then Natasha had Bruce Banner's alter ego to contend with and Clint himself. And he was her- she'd punch him for this- best friend. Teammate. Partner.

Loki really knew which buttons to press.

But why was he doing this, still?

Even Director Fury had asked about Clint's tired eyes: "Caught something," he lied with a shrug. Though maybe he did have something, something pale and drawn, green eyed and laughing haunting his flat for- fun?

That ghost of a smile.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a Tuesday. A dead sort of day, not mid week, not the beginning of the week, nowhere near the end.

Clint was crouched, body taught, on the alcove of a building in London.

White stone greyed by pollution. Pigeon droppings and the odd feather, here and there. The sky was white too, not grey, but a big blank canvas of a sky, no discernible clouds, as they were so thick as to blot out the blue. It was bright though, and despite an almost heat haze over the tarmac below, the visibility was good. Normally Clint could be relied on to hit target even in a blizzard, but today he was glad of the clear sight lines and clear air.

He was so tired.

As their plane had landed, Natasha had punched him in the shoulder and told him to lighten up or take some painkillers. That was her version of concerned, and the fact that she didn't tease him about the various less than angelic causes of a late night showed that she was _actually_ worried.

No.

She couldn't figure it out. Somehow, but certainly, Clint knew no-one could help. Heck if he ran for help it'd probably get _worse._

_Mischief _after all.

He drew his bowstring back with a steady hand as he heard the screech of car tires down the street. That would be Natasha and the target then. This was easy. Arrow in the eye and- all over. Maybe a cup of tea since they were in London, then a flight straight back to the US. Clint didn't even like tea, but they'd had vodka when they were in Russia. Natasha could drink him into the ground.

Back to the job!

He held the string steady, the narrow alcove meaning his elbow brushed the dirty stone behind him. It was cold and he wished he had long sleeves on despite the humidity of the day.

Cold white stone. _Cold white arms and surprisingly gentle fingers._

Focus!

The car swerved around the corner, black, shiny, a sports car, not at all like a S.H.I.E.L.D vehicle, not like the one Loki had stolen.

Concentrate!

The street was almost empty. This was easy. Arrow in the eye. Silently. No evidence. Then they could go.

_That arrow had never hit Loki's skull though._

Focus Clint!

Clint shifted position even though he didn't need to. He knew where he had to shoot, and when- just as the car passed that street light, before it passed below him. It was nearly there.

Two seconds.

One.

"Shoot Barton."

Whispered words. In his right ear. Cool breath and the smell of iron and cinnamon.

Ice shot down his spine and he froze, string taught, as the car passed the streetlight. That voice.

No!

Clint fell from his crouch onto one knee and sent the arrow flying, directly into the targets neck, from behind, killing him instantly.

Clint didn't even notice the guy's car swerve violently, then crash with a sickening crunch of metal, block smoke seeping from the bonnet, black blood seeping from the man. He didn't notice Natasha's car come around the corner afterwards and skid to a showy handbrake stop.

Clint lowered his bow and looked around him in the alcove. As though anyone else could fit up here with him- let alone a six foot God!

Yet.

To keep going, Clint operated on habit. Dismantle bow, back in case. Arrows. Check for evidence. A last sweep for camera he might have to take out, as _if _he'd missed any. Case strapped to back, gloves with grippers on, and back along the edge of the parapet to the open window. Or he should have, immediately, except he stopped and scanned the building and the alcove and feeling ridiculous and utterly stupid, whispered angrily to the air, that now smelt of nothing but pigeons, dust and pollution, "Leave me alone okay?"

A pigeon hooted mournfully somewhere above him, but nothing else answered. Nothing, unless Loki had turned himself into a fucking pigeon. The mental profanity and the stupid image helped a bit, and Clint turned and edged along the alcove a little more steadily, to meet Natasha downstairs.

Back on the ground, she was dressed in civilian clothes, disguise, and had clearly been waiting. Clint had changed into jeans and a T-shirt in the marble bathrooms of hotel he'd been sitting on. Natasha wore a summer dress in green and heeled sandals, yet she looked anything but the easy holiday maker as the heel of her hand slammed into his shoulder in the dirty area behind the kitchen bins, and her mascared eyes were cold.

She pushed him against the brick wall and leant up into his face and hissed, "What the hell are you playing at?"

"It went fine. I got him."

"You missed."

"I didn't I-"

She shook her head, her eyes narrow, "No Barton, you _missed_. You count missing as less than a centimeter. You shot him five meters too late, in the neck. You left evidence. It went through into the god-damned car seat! We were meant to be untraceable!"

She stepped back away from him, a lock of red hair falling across her face as she opened her shoulder bag and pulled out Clint's arrow, mostly clean with just a little dried blood in the grooves. Natasha tossed it back at him and he took it, and knelt to pack it away with the others.

He could feel her cold gaze on him even before he straightened up. To cut her off, "Shall we go? The next flight's in two hours and we're going civilian. We may as well get it."

She pursed her lips and Clint knew this wasn't finished with. However, after a look that could kill, she silently nodded.

He picked up his bag and they left, blending into the street like a normal couple, Natasha ahead with an angry (worried) stride, and Clint a little further behind.

He kept hearing footsteps that he couldn't place.

There was a growing hopeless panic that he could.


End file.
